On my first trip to the Solomon Islands, we landed on a small runway and walked past military vehicles and army tents pitched by soldiers from different Pacific nations. From that moment onwards, even when in the most remote islands, someone knew where we were. Aside from peace-keeping troops throughout the troubled region, difficult naval operations were taking place and it wasn't unusual to eat breakfast with soldiers that had spent days destroying sea mines and live bombs from WWII. We travelled between islands in small dinghy-sized motorised boats and held clinics for villagers on tiny, palm covered islands. On one island, we were greeted by a machete welding old man and had chickens walking amongst our equipment while villagers lined up to be seen. On another island, a large group of men with machetes were building canoes for the approaching Centenary celebrations while on another, the villagers were summoned by a young male blowing into a giant sea-shell. Some of the women made plates from palm leaves for us to eat our lunch from and when we were finished our clinic, the same women watched us eat our cooked lunch inside a room with woven walls in a building on stilts. Each time we ate, after each clinic, we made sure that we told them that their meal had been better than the island before. The journey home to our base was a slow one on the first day ... partly because we were thrashed by a tropical storm and partly because we were five meals heavier than when we left. My new shoes took a beating because we had to wade through water on coral reefs to get back into our boat and I reluctantly put them into the rubbish bin before I went to bed on the second day.
